The Complete Roderick

by John Sladek

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know. You never fix anything around here, you never let me call a repairman, all you do is let it pile up! The crapyard of the universe we got here, the crap –’

  Just let me finish, will you? Just have the courtesy to let me finish what I’m saying, okay? Okay. Machines are here to stay, we have to make the most of ’em. We owe it to ourselves not to just throw them away the minute they conk out on us. If we do that, we’re turning all our energy and raw materials into junk and garbage and pollution. Right?’

  ‘What is this, are you gonna quote your whole goddamned article for Country Ambience or something? I’ve read it.’

  ‘Just let me finish. Now, we don’t call repairmen because the true person, true to his own environment, fixes everything himself. It’s the only way to learn to live in your environment. You fix things yourself, or if you can’t fix something you make some new use out of it. Like maybe you cannibalize it to fix something else.’

  ‘Cannibalize my ass! I don’t believe what I’m hearing from you. God, you’ve been writing this crap so long you believe it yourself, any minute now you’re gonna tell me about bricoleurs and Zen motor cycles! Listen, buster, this isn’t your environment, it’s mine. You’re always off at some goddamned conference, I’m the one has to try living in this shit-hole day after day. Day and night, you know? I’m stuck here, with the deep-freeze that wrecks a quarter-ton of food, with the stopped-up drains – all of it. My environment, and it stinks.’ She looked at Roderick. ‘Yeah, including that little tin marvel, you mind telling me how he’s supposed to fit into our swell environmental situation? I mean, just what are we supposed to get out of having him around, a walking junkyard?’

  ‘Well, ahm, as a matter of fact I’m doing an article on him for Eco-Style, “I Adopted a Robot”, to tie in with their big issue on home cybernetics. And it looks like I’ll be guesting on a chat show next week, could lead to a book-movie deal, even heard from a producer putting out feelers for a sitcom series, My Little Robot, I mean it’s all talk at this stage, but who knows …?’

  On the screen, a man with a yellow moustache held up a box of detergent. Roderick began to wave his arms.

  ‘Okay, keep him. Just keep him out of my way, Hank. I mean it.’

  ‘Baba abbaba!’ said Roderick. ‘Ablabba bab!’

  That night, after Roderick had been plugged to his re-charger in the spare room, and while he stood motionless, his blue glass eyes opaque in sleep, Hank and Indica patched up their quarrel.

  It was a chance to be alone, and they made the most of it. Indica set out low-cholesterol potato chips in a biodegradable plastic bowl, Hank opened a few recycled cans of home brew, and they put on their favourite old video tape of Jacques Cousteau. Holding hands, plenty of friendly eye-contact – it was almost like old times.

  Indica looked at the underwater ballet of porpoises critically. After all, she’d been a dancer herself once, and a good one. The chorus of Mao and I, nine months with the Braxton Hicks Dancers doing TV work, the talent was there. Even in that TV commercial where she’d been a dancing taco, it was there, talent she could have built into a career. Only she hadn’t. Somehow after she’d married Hank – anyway, here she was, watching a bunch of fish! Oh well, Hank probably loved it.

  Hank watched a man in a wet-suit cavorting with cetaceans. Ho hum. Indica probably loved this stuff, this expression of man’s unity with Nature. For him, it was just a place to rest his gaze while he swallowed flat beer. Of course he still cared about the global environment, in a way. He still wrote articles about the blue whale and the white rhino. Not his fault if they turned into promotional tie-ins for glossy magazine spreads selling dog food and deodorants. He had to live. Had to swim with the current and survive. People got tired worrying about Spaceship Earth, they wanted to concentrate on Spaceship Me.

  There were no more triumphs, only peak experiences; no more tragedies, only personal problems. Indica’s problem was being a good dancer who’d stopped dancing. Hank’s problem was being a bad writer who couldn’t stop writing. Together they were building for themselves a modest little problem relationship.

  Just like old times,’ said Indica.

  ‘A déjà vu experience,’ said Hank.

  ‘You can say that again.’

  II

  ‘Who? Oh. Uh, great to hear from you uh, Dan is it? Great to, only I’m just this minute trying to get away, guesting tonight on the Ab Jason show, gotta be in L.A. by, hey, some great publicity there for your little lab … well sure you probably sure a low profile, he did, yes he did explain that, sure. Only …’

  As he transferred the phone to his other ear in order to look at his watch, Indica could hear the frantic voice on the other end: ‘… taking a hell of a chance even using a pay phone … Subpoena … threatening me with mental hosp …’

  ‘Appreciate all that, Dan boy, only hell I’m a freelance journalist, you can’t expect … truth is my business … public has a right to know and the truth, in the long run the truth … Frankly I think you’re overdramatizing this whole … anyway how can they subpoena you into a mental, that doesn’t make sense, you … Frankly Dan boy I don’t understand your attitude, here I am babysitting this creation of yours, busting my balls to get you some free publicity, even sent you those test tapes you wanted did Allbright give them to you? He did, and … Okay, sure, if that’s … sure I, just a second.’

  He fumbled for a pen and wrote M & P Wood, 614 Sycamore Avenue, Newer, Nebraska. ‘Any zip … right. If that’s the way you feel about it, fine, if this Wood firm can do any better … what am I supposed to do, the thing’s subnormal, doesn’t even talk … well no we haven’t talked to it, not much, course I could have spent more time with it but trying to carve out a career here, you know, trying to weld together the concepts of ecological balance and post-industrial … YES I’LL SEND THE GODDAMNED THING. Yeah, ciao.’ He slammed down the receiver. ‘You hear any of that?’

  ‘I wasn’t listening.’ Indica sat wedged in a window seat, painting her nails. The scarf around her throat was blue, her toenails were becoming red.

  ‘That guy’s cracking up, completely bananas, you know? Figures they are after him, want to subpoena his records and lock him up, smash the robot and Christ knows what.’

  ‘I’m on their side,’ she said.

  Roderick extended a claw towards her foot. ‘Red.’

  ‘Listen, he wants us to send him off to some firm in Nebraska of all damned places, thinks we’re not good enough to, not caring enough, how do you like that?’

  She shrugged. ‘I couldn’t care less. Are you gonna make that plane or what?’

  ‘Yeah, plenty of time. Only Jesus he has to dump this on me when I’ve got enough to worry about, you think maybe I should trim my beard a little? I don’t want to come across as a goddamned nut …’

  ‘Leave it.’ She did not look at him. ‘You look fine.’

  ‘Great, but what am I supposed to say? I’ve got nothing to show them, I mean if I show them that they’ll just laugh. A million kids have toys more articulate than that. Here I’ve worked my buns off trying to prepare for this show, can’t even take him with me. I mean they’ll just laugh. I mean, he can’t do anything but babble in baby-talk, you think a hundred million viewers want to see that?’

  Indica set down her bottle of nail varnish. ‘Don’t worry. You can just tell them about him.’

  ‘Sure, I have to, I have to do it that way now. But I mean Christ I spent three days trying to teach him chess, all he knows is how to knock the pieces off the board. What am I supposed to say? I’ve adopted this robot only he’s a little retarded?’

  ‘Jess,’ said Roderick. Jess, jess, jess. Jess?’

  Indica snickered. ‘Oh don’t worry, you’ll think of something on the plane. Make it up, what the hell. Tell ’em he reads Latin and Esperanto, plays the ukulele. Tell ’em he likes the Mets. Tell ’em you want him to grow up to be President.’

  ‘Sure, you’re right
. I’ve got to think of this as pure box-office, that’s all. Only my nerves are – and this guy calling me up like this at the last minute, saying he doesn’t want any publicity. Doesn’t want any publicity! You know, sometimes –’

  ‘You’ll miss your plane.’

  Hank stood up, holding his attache case in both hands. With the full beard and glasses, he looked a little like an immigrant in some old movie, coming off the steamship at Ellis Island. All he needed, she thought, was a tag around his neck. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Here goes. Wish me luck.’

  ‘Break a leg,’ she murmured. ‘Bye.’

  Roderick looked up, when he’d gone. ‘Bye-bye-bye-bye-bye.’ He turned back to watch Indica’s red toes. Toes were little fingers. If you had fingers and toes you could do all kinds of things, make them red or count them: this little finger went to market, like Hank, that little finger stayed home, like Indica. Queen, king, knight, rook and the little pawn at the end there …

  He moved closer until he was staring at her across the low table where the bottle of varnish stood. There was white stuff between her toes and red stuff on them. She put it on with a little matchstick, red. Red, it went into a little hole in the top of this bishop here on this funny jessboard that didn’t have any squares. When she put the matchstick into it, there it was, a bishop. Only without squares, how could it see where to move? He grabbed the bishop and it fell over and red came out.

  ‘Shit,’ said Indica. She pulled a lot of white stuff out of a box and mopped the board, spreading red all over.

  ‘Jit,’ said Roderick. Indica stopped mopping and smiled at him. ‘Jit,’ he said again.

  ‘What the hell, Roddy, go ahead. Have a ball. I’m never gonna clean another thing around here, you know? So go ahead.’

  He dipped his claw in the red and held it up to her. ‘Red.’

  There was Hank on TV! His beard might be a different shape and his face might be a different colour, but here he was, real as life. Roderick went to the window and looked out. Hank’s car wasn’t there, so he hadn’t come back, but here he was, sitting on a sofa with some other people, talking to Ab Jason who sat on a chair of his own. Ab was a man who kept wrinkling his face and making people laugh. Roderick rolled right up close to the TV screen, to watch every move.

  ‘… doesn’t, ahm, talk much yet but he’s learning, boy is he learning fast. He plays chess – ’

  ‘Plays chess? But so do a lot of computers. Tell me, Hank, what’s so special about little Roddy?’

  ‘Well, he’s, he’s like a real kid. I mean for instance he’s a big baseball fan. He likes the Mets.’ Tittering came from the audience, and Ab wrinkled his face.

  ‘The Mets! Ahem!’ Laughter. ‘Who’s his favourite player? The batting practice machine?’ Loud laughter, then applause. ‘Seriously, Hank, what else does he do?’

  ‘He watches TV a lot.’

  ‘TV? No kidding! What do you think he gets out of it? What kind of stuff does he like, anyway? Serious stuff, commentators and think-shows? Or daytime shows like Milestones to Morning? Hey, is he watching us right now? Is he?’

  ‘Yes, yes he is, Ab. He and my wife – ’

  ‘Okay, want to wave to him, before we take a break?’

  Hank waved and Roderick waved back. Indica was of course upstairs with Bax.

  ‘You’re watching Ab Jason, and right now you’re watching a man wave goodbye to his adopted son – a robot who likes the Mets. We’ll be right back after this:’

  Ab and Hank disappeared, and Roderick saw the giant armpit again.

  ‘… clean and dry almost twenty-five hours a day. Why settle for less? If you’re troubled …’

  Bye-bye-bye. Roderick trundled into the hall and looked up the dark stairs. Indica and Bax were up there playing a game, he could hear them laughing and grunting. There must be some way of getting up all those stairs, maybe if he grabbed the newel-post and tilted his bottom so his tracks could grip the carpet – it was easy. One step, two steps, this little finger went to market, queen, king, bishop, knight, rook, here he was half way up, whatever you do don’t look down, but no one’s ever climbed the South face before … I, I can’t hold on, slipping … hang on, two hands reaching for each other, fingers almost touching when the distant rumble of an avalanche … I, I’m not gonna make it, Bill. You damned cripple, get up out of that chair and walk! Fingers reaching out, clutching for support …

  He was at the top, gliding along to the door that was open just a crack to lay a finger of light across the landing carpet. Roderick530 looked in, knowing it was forbidden … Do not fence with me, Amanda, that room is always kept locked, I have my reasons …

  Bax and Indica were sitting on the side of the bed. Indica was sitting on Bax’s lap, facing him. They were not wearing any clothes. Their faces were different, as though Bax had just swung open the gull-wing door of his new Ghirlandaio and invited her to jump in for a new motoring experience, while Indica had just used Anatase, the fragrance that makes him thrill to be a thrall, or as though they were expecting something to happen. They gasped and groaned and kept wrestling around, nobody winning. Every now and then Indica might give out with a No or a Yesyes, but Bax said nothing.

  Roderick tired of waiting for something to happen. He counted those fingers and toes he could see, he noticed that Indica had bigger chests than Bax, and then he started looking over the room.

  There was a funny bicycle-thing in the corner, you’d need fingers to grip the handles. On the wall there was a picture of a woman standing balanced on one toe. Toes are just little fingers, you need them for everything here. There was a picture of a whale, above a table covered with little bottles and jars. A policeman would put his finger into a jar and taste it and nod at the other policeman, saying it was the real stuff all right, the real stuff.

  There was a telephone by the bed. Whoever calls the detective can’t say it over the phone, meet him at Pier 13, only he’s always dead when the detective gets there. And as soon as the detective leaves somebody’s office they start pushing buttons on the phone, ‘Some nosey P.I. is asking a lot of questions. The wrong questions.’ Then he sits chewing his finger-nails before he reaches for a gun. With fingers you could do just about anything, squeeze a trigger …

  Indica said, ‘Yes no yes no no yes yes no yes no!’ Bax gasped and they rolled apart. There were marks on his shoulders where her red finger-nails had been digging in.

  Roderick looked at his own red claw. Red, but not a finger, not a toe. With real fingers you could do anything, make a phone call, taste the real stuff, count up ten little fingers and ten littler fingers …

  Bax lay there like a boxer, like when they’re taping your fingers before your comeback fight, years ago you killed your pal and quit the ring …

  Rings, sure, you could wear rings, a fancy ring like the homicidal maniac who’s always stalking somebody and all you ever see is his fancy ring … third finger left hand with this ring, yes, wedding-rings, engagement-rings, all at low, low prices, one carat, two carat …

  Fighting, fists, sure, you could make a fist. ‘Quantrell, you had this coming for a long time, and I aim …’ Or a fistful of money for seven straight passes at the crap table, or fist counting, one potato, two potato …

  Something made him see all the fingers in the world, fingers held out to beg bread from the French aristocrats, gripping the bars of a cell in Death Row, pressing a doorbell, thumbing a ride, squeezing a trigger, playing church-and-steeple, throwing down a gauntlet or drawing off a slim glove, giving signals (‘Contact!’ ‘Scram!’ ‘Peace!’), bidding at an auction, gripping a precipice as a heel comes down to crush them. He saw chorus girls filing their nails as they talked over their dates; priests making a gesture as though they held invisible martini glasses; the suspect being finger-printed in the old precinct house; the safe cracker sanding his finger-tips; the fingers of an artist framing his model; the quivering fingers of a drunken brain surgeon; the cruel fingers of a pianist clawing the keyboard; the gna
rled hands of a diamond-cutter; the plump hands of a Roman emperor …

  He couldn’t be sure until he counted again, and still he had to think it over until dawn, when Bax and Indica were gone and Hank came home.

  ‘Mommy not here this morning, eh Roddy?’

  ‘Bax,’ said Roderick.

  ‘Uh-huh. She’s not back. Probably went off to her goddamned health ranch again. Boy, if she had to pay a few of the bills from that place … Still, it’s just you and me today, Roddy. Have to get our own breakfasts – I mean, I have to aw shit, why do I bother trying to talk to you, might as well talk to this coffee-maker here.’

  ‘Bax.’

  ‘Tell you what, let’s surprise her, okay? She’s always complaining about how I never fix anything around here, let’s make a big effort and really try to whip this place in shape, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’m gonna fix every damn thing in the place, that or bust my balls trying. One thing, I see she went and spilled nail-varnish all over the coffee table in the den. So first I better add that to the list.’

  Roderick followed him to his desk and watched him finger the keyboard of his home computer.

  Table, coffee, teakwood, refin top.

  ejt 2 hrs.

  complete when?

  After a moment the computer replied:

  Earliest complete 94 weeks. ok?

  ‘Ninety-four weeks before I can sand down a little table? What the hell here, Roddy, looks like the old computer’s playing tricks on us. Let’s try again.’ He tapped. ‘Same damned answer. Hmm. Maybe what I need is a new scenario with the earliest possible window for table, coffee.’ He punched some new instructions and the computer began reeling off pages of explanation involving work-flow diagrams, urgency priorities, job-class and materials-acquisition charts. Hank could barely understand half of it, and that half made him uneasy.

  Urgent jobs, such as Floorboard, loose (causing Lamp, Table, Flickering and a possible Hazard, Fire) had to come first. Then came jobs like the solar panel which in time might cause Damage, House, Structural. Then came fixing the garage door electric eye which, though not serious in itself, made it necessary to park the car outside where sunlight would eventually damage its paint. Did not Toilet Bowl Cleaner, Automatic, Jammed cause a Hazard, Health? And would it not be a good idea to check the entire sewer system at the same time? Then Dishwasher, Ultrasound, Leaking seemed to have some urgent problems (possible Hazard, Health), but since this required parts he could obtain only by mail order, he might profitably fill the interval by overhauling the lawn mower engine and replastering the kitchen.